


Yesterday I Died, Tomorrow's Bleeding

by doorwaytoparadise



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Martin proves himself an amazing friend, More like pre-slash really, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3834841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A grudge against Douglas from an old Air England colleague leads to the worst kind of assault against him, in an effort to destroy the happiness he has found. Douglas is left broken in the aftermath, and turns to Martin for safety, who tries his best to pick up all the pieces.</p>
<p>Written for this prompt on the meme: http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6968.html?thread=13804088#cmt13804088</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _All is lost but hope remains and this war's not over_  
>  _There's a light, there's a sun_  
>  _taking all these shattered ones_  
>  _To the place we belong_  
>  _and his love will conquer all_  
>  _Yesterday I died; tomorrow's bleeding_  
>  _Fall into your sunlight_  
>  -Shattered, Trading Yesterday

Douglas has not stopped shaking.  
Not since he became aware of what happened, was happening, to him, not since he had struggled so desperately for escape, and not since he had endured the entire ordeal, helpless at the hands of the man who held such hatred for him. He couldn't even remember what he had done to him. 

He stands now, at the door of one Martin Crieff, and he can barely bring his hand up to knock, letting his fist hit the wood with a low thud. His hand drops back down and he waits in the chilly night air, unable to summon the energy to knock again and almost ready to simply drop to the floor and not get up for a long time. His luck finally seems to return to him when he hears the shuffle of feet from inside, and the relief that crashes through him when the door opens to reveal the face of his co-worker is nearly overwhelming. 

“Douglas?”

Martin peers up at him, quiet and curious. 

“Are you- are you okay?”

Douglas couldn't answer even if he wanted to. Another shiver wracks his frame, and that seems to snap Martin out of his confusion, as he gently takes hold of Douglas' arm and pulls him inside, closing and locking the door behind them.  
In the dim light of Martin's living room, it is difficult to see clearly, but Martin knows Douglas, knows how he is, how he moves, and had seen that something was very very wrong the moment he opened the door. His eyes glance over his first officer, taking in his state of dress (his shirt buttons are in the wrong holes), his shaking, his shell-shocked expression. He sees the bleakness in his eyes, the way his jaw keeps moving but no sound comes out, and when his gaze travels to Douglas' hands, trembling where they are clenched into fists at his waist, he spots red peeking from beneath the cuff.

“Douglas,” He breathes out the name, “Douglas, god-”

Martin stops short, face tight with concern, and he looks so damn genuine and caring that Douglas finds he can barely breathe in the face of it.

“ _What happened?_ ”

The question cracks the last of Douglas' resolve, his willpower long since spent, and he feels himself finally, completely shatter. His breath is harsh in the stillness of the flat, the silence between them making it that much more obvious. The strain has slowly but steadily been tipping Douglas towards the edge since he first opened his eyes to see _that man_ above him, and stumbling out into the night only pushed him further. Now at the threshold of the first place that came to mind when he desperately sought out safety, he feels the abyss at his feet, a gaping darkness reaching up to swallow him whole. He looks into the wide eyes of his captain, his friend, his safety net, and tips forward into the open air.  
Just as he _hoped prayed knew_ , Martin catches him before he hits the ground.

=

Martin clutches at his friend, supporting him as best he can, even as they both sink to the floor. He has no idea what has happened, though he has his suspicions, and he's not entirely sure why Douglas has shown up at his flat, but he disregards those thoughts as unimportant.  
Right now, there is only Douglas. Douglas and his pain, and the shuddering gasping, choked sounds coming from his throat. He lets him push his face into the crook of his neck, lets his arms circle around his shoulders, and simply holds him. Douglas does not cry. He does not give great heaving sobs or even simple tears. He only slumps against Martin, small noises wrenched from his core, sounding like a terrible mix of raw sorrow, grief, and hurt that makes Martin's heart ache for the man in his arms.

Eventually, Douglas calms into silence, until they are simply sitting there, breathing together, and Martin has the sudden feeling that he is at the eye of hurricane, the calm before the storm starts up again, and takes this still moment to further observe the older man. Douglas' face is still tucked into his neck and he lets him be, turning his attention to the rest of him. Douglas' arms are limp at his sides and he makes no move when Martin gently picks one hand up and brings it to where he can clearly see his wrist. He pushes the sleeve back and stares at how the skin is rubbed raw, bleeding sluggishly, like Douglas has been pulling against something wrapped around the joint. He grits his teeth, feeling his throat constrict, but gives no other indication of his distress. He knows Douglas is distressed enough as it is, and needs a rock to keep him grounded.

There is a breath that ghosts beneath his jaw line and Douglas slowly, laboriously, lifts his head. He does not meet Martin's eyes. Martin says nothing, patient, open, kind, and Douglas doesn't know what to say. He cannot bear to unload this burden onto Martin but he desperately needs him to know, the only person he would want to tell.

Before he can give it too much thought, with as muddled as his mind is, he finds himself taking a breath, opening his mouth, and struggling for the words to explain what he's sure he himself has not even fully absorbed. He's still shaking.

=

As Martin listens to the half-sentences, the stammered words, the fumbling explanation, he uses every ounce of his control to remain neutral, calm and gentle. He is feeling anything but. The events of the night sound like they are being forcibly dragged from Douglas, and Martin takes a moment to thank whatever deity is listening that Douglas is willing to tell him at all, that he would actually come to him for help. Douglas only gives vague allusions and it's what he implies that makes Martin's gut start to churn. He is horrified, of course, stricken that anyone, let alone _Douglas_ would be subjected to something like this, and he feels the sorrow creep into his bones and threaten to make him sick. Douglas keeps talking, like he cannot stop, barely making sense, but Martin reads the feeling in his words, his tone, his body language, having been able to read Douglas for a long time now. 

There is a moment, a space of breath, where _logic reason sense_ abandon him, flee in the face of a sudden all encompassing fury. It brings with it a coil of white hot anger, that tightens in his gut, constricts like a snake and sits heavy like a stone. There is a burning in his veins, a howling in his chest that beats at his rib cage, baying for the blood of the one who hurt the man before him so irreparably.  
Martin's face at this moment is both terrifying and breathtaking all at once, a fierce and quiet fire flashing in his eyes, though no one can see it. Even as he tightens his hold on Douglas, he thinks of the small handgun, given to him by his grandfather years ago, that is tucked away in the back of his closet. He has not held it in a long time, but he thinks that maybe now it would be a welcoming weight in his palm. He shakes these thoughts away and compresses his anger into something he can utilize later. What Douglas needs right now is his support, as full and constant as he can give, not for him to go charging off into the night after a man he doesn't even know the name of.

=

Douglas finishes his jumbled story, and the effort seems to have taken all his energy with it, as he collapses back against Martin like a puppet with it's strings cut. Martin steels himself for what he knows will be a difficult road ahead, but one he is fully willing to walk down for Douglas' sake. He shifts from under the other man's weight, and in one smooth motion, he is standing, keeping Douglas upright with him. He moves them over to the couch, carefully depositing the older man on the cushions.  
Martin stands before him, watching as Douglas' head dips in pure exhaustion, his shoulders drooping, and his eyes unfocused. As much as he would like to let him rest, Martin has to address another important issue first. He reaches out to gently lift Douglas' chin, meeting his eyes. 

“Are you going to need, um, medical attention? Aside from...”

He gestures at Douglas' wrists, and the man shakes his head.

“No, only-”

Douglas shifts slightly, his trouser leg rising, and Martin spots similar raw marks at the other man's ankles. He clenches his jaw and makes no comment, pulling his hand back and straightening.  
He leaves Douglas sitting where he is, and strides to the bathroom, grabbing his first aid kit and moving back to the couch. Carefully, so carefully, he tends to Douglas' wrists and ankles, having understood how the injuries were acquired from the earlier explanation and feeling his anger grow. He tamps down on the growl building in his chest, and wraps bandages around all four areas. He has spotted other bruises, other red marks marring his skin, but as they are not bleeding, he can do nothing for them now. Finished with what little he can do, he packs the kit away and shoves it onto the side table.

Mindfully, he prods Douglas back to standing, keeping a careful eye out as he sways slightly, and leads him to his bedroom. He sits him on the edge of the bed, turning to find some clothes that might fit the larger man. When he turns back, a pair of too-large sweatpants and an over-sized jumper in hand, it's to the sight of Douglas with his head in his hands. Martin lays the clothing on the sheets next to Douglas and crouches before him, looking up into his face. With a jolt, Martin sees that Douglas is finally crying. The tears drip steadily from his eyes, though he gives no other indication of the action, utterly motionless. Martin swallows hard and reaches up, cupping Douglas' face and using his thumbs to wipe at the tears. The other man stares at him blankly, before something in him seems to shift, and his face screws up in the look of a man who has been broken, his pieces scattered around him. Douglas reaches out and grabs onto Martin, clinging to fistfuls of his shirt, and Martin stands to let him press his face into his stomach, rubbing soothing circles into his back. 

Once Douglas has cried himself dry, Martin helps him into the change of clothes, and underneath the sheets, watching as he drops off in mere minutes. He spends another moment just observing, before swiftly walking out to the kitchen. 

=

Once there, Martin lets himself collapse into a chair, breath coming faster, as something like panic shoots through him. He sits at the little table and lets out all his pain, his sorrow, his nerve and worry, barely making a sound, as he lets himself break open, lets himself cry and feels the rage coursing in his veins. He lets everything out, as quietly as he can, and then calmly, systematically, pulls himself back together. He needed to get it all out, to release his emotions, so he can help Douglas begin to mend, to heal, to build himself back into the man Martin considers one of the strongest people he knows.

Martin counts to 30 and breathes in deeply, before moving back to the bedroom. Douglas is tossing in his sleep, low grunts and whimpers punctuating each turn of his body. He hears several “ _no_ ”s and one or two “ _don't_ ”s, and it's when Douglas huffs out a low “ _please_ ” that Martin perches on the edge of the bed, one hand sliding into Douglas' hair, the other gently settling on his shoulder. Douglas stills beneath him, the creases between his eyebrows smoothing slightly, and taking that as a good sign, Martin slips onto the bed beside him. Douglas immediately rolls into him, and Martin rests his chin on top of Douglas' head, content to keep hold of his friend for as long as necessary. He closes his eyes against the thought of the coming morning, the days ahead of them, and settles more comfortably in his position. Douglas sleeps undisturbed until the morning light filters in through the blinds of the bedroom window.


	2. Chapter 2

Douglas wakes to sunlight.  
He wakes to birds chirping, a warm weight at his side, and an air of peace in the room.  
He'd love to delude himself, really and truly, but he's always been the clever one, the one who prided himself on his superior mind, and despite the comfortable press of another body next to his, he can still feel a faint sting at his wrists and ankles, and even with his head resting between collarbones, he knows his bed partner isn't there for reasons that are good.

He had woken half-afraid to open his eyes, for fear of what he'd see, perhaps some dark figure looming above him once again, the safety of Martin's flat no longer enclosing him in it's warmth. But instantly, he had felt the other man beneath him, heard a steady heartbeat thumping where his ear was pressed to his chest, and felt himself relax. He had finally dared to open his eyes. 

_(He had finally dared to open his eyes, slowly, blearily, head pounding_   
_His vision is blurred, he can't think straight why can't he think straight why is it so hard to think._   
_Where is he...? His eyes will not clear, will not give him anything substantial to clue him in._   
_Mind so hazy and sluggish, he cannot focus on anything, not even the face hovering above him._

_What's happening?)_

Still half-clinging to Martin, Douglas briefly wishes his mind wasn't quite so sharp, because it cannot stop playing back the events of the day before. Brief flashes, sensations, hissed words, and a grudge held so long it had festered into something terrifying. He had realized afterward that he must have been drugged, for he had no recollection of what happened between his going out for a walk and waking up to-

_(horrified realization, slow that it is, the awareness creeping back in_   
_A bed beneath him a body on top of him and he doesn't know how he got here.)_

Tension shoots through him, and he subconsciously tightens his hold on Martin. The other man makes a small sound, still asleep, a startled grunt or perhaps one of discomfort.

_(He goes to open his mouth, to say something, anything, to scream, to cry out, but he can't, his silver tongue silenced behind...tape...?_  
 _He can barely move, cannot get away. **He has to get away.)**_

The early morning, and the remnants of sleep leave Douglas with less control over his thoughts, bringing this barrage of flashbacks, and he forces himself completely awake. Closing his eyes tight, he wills the disjointed memories away, sends them to the back of his mind, hoping they'll stay locked, but knowing it won't be for long. He flinches as a hand comes to rest on the back of his head. Martin is awake now, and looking at him in sleepy concern, appearance tousled and so terribly kind. Douglas nearly looks away, but he needs this, needs Martin here to hold him together, to be patient and kind and gentle, not judging, never judging, just willing. He loosens his grip and rolls off the other man, sitting up. Martin, yawning widely, follows his motion. 

They both get out of bed, Douglas hovering uncertainly for a moment, before Martin nudges him towards the bathroom, muttering about a shower if he wants it. Douglas finds he suddenly wants nothing else more. He shuffles into the bathroom, stripping himself of the borrowed clothes. As he pulls the shirt over his head, one sleeve catches and jerks his arm, and he freezes, a shot of dread pulsing through his gut.

_(There's something..? Holding him back, holding him there, it is tight and it hurts and he cannot move_   
_Panic fear desperation)_

Douglas shakes his head violently, quickly freeing himself and stepping into the near scalding hot shower. He glances down, absently noting that the bandages are now soaked through, but can't bring himself to care, as he peels them off. He scrubs his skin until it's nearly as red as his wrists.

When he steps out, he finds a clean set of clothes sitting on the counter and feels an enormous flash of gratitude at having someone like Martin in his life. Once dressed, he slips out to the kitchen, finding Martin with tea and toast. He's not sure he has the stomach for anything, but Martin's smile and offer of breakfast comes with no expectations.  
He manages half a slice and most of his tea, before giving up and pushing the plate and mug away from him. He notes that Martin hasn't had much more himself. Neither man says much, unsure of what to do, how to react, and too afraid to bring up anything of the previous night's events.

Douglas' eyes dart around the small but cozy room, landing on the print of an airplane hanging on the wall. His mind drifts to his days as a captain at Air England. He thinks hard on those long lost years, and wonders yet again what on earth he had done, and comes up empty. He barely remembers the man, nothing more than a fleeting wisp of recognition, and that's what leaves him still staggering.

_(Struggling limbs beneath an unmoving captor, filled with bitterness and loathing_  
 _Confusion. Why? What did he-?_  
 _Even if his mind was fully functional he is sure he could not recall._  
 _He hadn't been that much of a bastard back then, surely not enough to warrant-_  
 ** _What. Did. He. Do._** )

He cannot stop thinking about it, about what happened, no matter how much he tries not to. He cannot stop turning it over in his mind, desperate and lost and seeking answers, because this kind of thing just didn't happen to him. Plenty of things went wrong in his life; his marriages, his relationship with his daughters, his alcoholism, his career, but a disaster like this was unthinkable, impossible, but now that it had actually occurred, Douglas found he could not tear his mind away from it. It had buried itself beneath his skin, like grains of sand, scraping away and eroding the armor he has spent so long building around himself. His walls, his barriers, his masks cannot hold themselves up in the face of this, and he stands small and vulnerable and exposed to the harsh cold reality. He cannot do this alone. Not as he is now, old and tired and broken, and Martin, damn him, has somehow become the light in the dark. 

_(He has to hold on he cannot break not here not now he cannot break_  
 _The man's face is twisted with his rage and he looks right into his eyes._  
 _He endures even as hysteria bubbles beneath his skin._  
 _Pieces of him are cracking breaking falling around him)_

As they both sit there at the table, Douglas lost in thought, Martin discreetly watches him. He sees the play of emotions across the other man's face, the subtle shifts in his features, observes the creasing between his brows and the lines of his face being made more prominent, and wonders how he can possibly fix this. He can be incompetent on a good day, and this is so far beyond the usual petty issues he faces, that he finds himself terrified of not being enough, of screwing up and watching someone he loves never recover from this trauma. He wonders and he questions and he thinks about why he, Martin Crieff, all nervous stuttering and panicked second-guessing, was the one Douglas came to, and he is both blown away and overwhelmed with the fact that Douglas seems to think, in some way or another, that Martin would be good for him.

He glances down at where Douglas is making abortive motions to rub at his wrist, and spots the lack of bandages, nearly smacking himself for not thinking of that. He reaches out, gently stopping the agitated movement.

“Here.” He mutters quietly. “Let me.”

Douglas stares at him for a moment, before giving a nod so small, Martin might have missed it if he wasn't looking straight at Douglas. He scrambles to grab the first aid kit from where he left it the night before and returns to crouch before the other man, carefully pushing his sleeves away and frowning as he sees they've started bleeding again. He goes to work.

Douglas stares down at his wrists, as Martin helps re-bandage them, finally seeing them clearly. He hadn't been in his right mind most of the night and hadn't seen the full extent of the damage he had done to himself in his panic. He winces, as a phantom pain flares where Martin's fingers brush, and the younger man glances up at him sharply. 

“Fine, you're fine.” He breathes out, shaking his head lightly. 

The pain wasn't really there, after all. He sits still in the chair, as Martin nudges his leg, silently asking for permission to get at the wounds on his ankles, and he thinks he's never loved the man more, for his instinctual knowledge of exactly how to treat him, for always asking, for giving without question, and for supporting unconditionally. Douglas is humbled before the other man's selflessness. As he grabs at his trousers and pulls them up, he wishes he could find the words to tell Martin how much he implicitly trusts him. 

As Martin works, Douglas finds himself thinking about that night and how it had finally, mercifully ended.

_(There is a heartbeat a space a breath and the weight on top of him vanishes, recedes._   
_Too wrung out in every way, he cannot do more than lie there trying to remember how to breathe, to stay alive, while some part of him wants nothing more than to die._   
_He feels the tension at his ankles ease, a release of... rope, maybe?_   
_But his senses go on high alert when the weight returns, leaning over him.)_

Douglas grimaces inwardly in remembrance, feels a twist of nausea at the still-lingering _horror terror dread_ that had shot through his veins like adrenaline.

_(A hand slides into his hair, a parody of tenderness, then tightens suddenly, violently, and he cannot bite back the muffled cry of pain._   
_The man jerks his head to the side, brings his mouth to his ear, hisses out a whisper he doesn't entirely catch but he hears the anger the hatred the grim self-satisfaction and feels sick._   
_The hand in his hair disappears and he feels his wrists cut loose._   
_The weight vanishes again. Rustling sounds, footsteps leave the room, the front door opens and shuts and he is left alone.)_

Still brooding on the events, caught in the memories and dragged back to that awful night, it takes Douglas a while to realize Martin is calling his name. His voice calls him back to the present, to the warmth that saturates the room, to this little slice of peace he has fallen into. From the way Martin is looking at him, he suspects he's tried to get his attention several times. He grounds himself to this moment, and sets his shaky foundations in the solid reliability that makes Martin who he is. Coming fully back to himself, he finally responds.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, does it still hurt? I can get you, well, something.”

Douglas shakes his head, the pain having dulled a while ago, and Martin stands from his crouch, simply accepting his answer.

=

Eventually they move to the living room, and Martin flicks the television on, settling on some nature documentary, mild and relaxing. Douglas sits on the couch, a bit stiffly, but Martin flops onto the other end, feigning casualness, as Douglas takes a moment to unwind the tension in his spine. He settles back into the cushions and if his foot hooks itself around Martin's ankle, the other man doesn't say a word.

The mindless program on the screen allows Douglas room to think and he finds his thoughts turning to his attacker. Douglas knows for as long as he lives, he will likely never forget the man who put him in this state, who drove him to this point of breaking, will never forget his face, not this time.  
He finds himself thinking how different the man is to the one beside him, now with his thigh pressed to Douglas' as well. He thinks how one loomed over him, violent and dark and angry, while Martin standing above him only feels like sanctuary. He is nearly undone in the face of such a stark contrast, this immense divide between the two men, a chasm that separates them down opposite ends of a spectrum, and Douglas marvels at how right he was to come here, dazed and still reeling.

_(He has not turned his head back, has not moved at all, staring blankly into space._   
_A single tear slips from his eye and tracks down across his cheeks_   
_He does not know how long he stays there before he can bring himself to move, to push into an upright position, to tear the tape away and all but fall off the bed. He slowly, carefully, methodically finds his things. His clothes, his phone, keys, wallet, and he dresses himself without thinking, concentrating solely on not shattering where he stands. He needs so much right now but above all, he needs safety. Safety, away from this hellish bedroom, that monster of a man, and his own dark thoughts threatening to rise, but he doesn't know where to go, what to do, too in shock and off-balance to think anything beyond leaving. He stumbles to the front door and reaches for the handle, halting as he sees the red at his wrists. Red..._   
_He thinks of bright red hair, a flushed red face, and knows where he needs to go._   
_He opens the door and walks out into the night.)_

He looks at the red of Martin's hair now, stares at how it flops in curls over the other man's forehead, and some small part of him quietly prays the other man will never leave him.

=

It is later that day when Martin returns from running some errands, looking tired, but he shoots Douglas a smile as he walks in through the door, and for now, nothing is the matter. Martin comes back to the living room, where Douglas had been lounging, and sinks into the chair. 

“Carolyn called.” He starts, and Douglas jolts because in all honesty, he hadn't really remembered that they did, in fact, have jobs. Martin gives him a look that says he knows, and continues.

“She was wondering where her idiot pilots were, because we may be on stand-by but we both are paid nowadays. I managed to convince her an emergency came up that we were both dealing with and that it might take a while, without giving her much detail. Not really sure how I pulled it off, to be honest. She's getting Herc to fill in if she needs him.”

Martin runs his hands through his hair, smiling ruefully, and Douglas feels a little guilty. He only felt the faintest pang at the prospect of not flying, more grateful than anything at not having to go back, to face Carolyn and Arthur, while still feeling the aftershocks.

“Neither of us are fit to fly anyway, I think.” Martin muses, and Douglas turns to stare at him, floored.

Because flying is Martin's life, his passion, his one goal above all else. He loves flying and everything about it, breathes it like air, and sacrificed so much to get to where he is now. He would do anything to fly, and by admitting that he isn't fit to do so, he is, with one simple statement, showing Douglas that he considers the older man more important than the most important thing in his life. It is...stunning, to grasp how much he means to Martin, how much the man must value him, and it's stunning to be worth so much to another human being that they will drop everything for him. Martin keeps leaving Douglas breathless in the best way possible, and he wonders if this is what it feels like when your home is another person.


	3. Chapter 3

_Day 2_

Douglas wakes in the middle of the night, jerked upright by a terror that clings to his skin, even as it fades into the darkness, forgotten snatches of memory receding to the back of his mind. Martin is there beside him again, only half-awake, but he tugs Douglas back down to the mattress, soothes the nightmare's last lingering touches away with his arms loosely settled around his neck, curling their bodies together. Douglas breathes in deeply, the mixed smells of citrus, cardboard, and coffee that cling to Martin enveloping him and calming his racing heart back to sleep.

When it's daylight again, they both get up but neither bothers to get dressed. Martin makes coffee. Douglas manages to eat more than the day before. Martin digs through the bags he had come with the evening before, and pulls out a small stack of Douglas' clothing. When Douglas raises his eyebrows in question, Martin grins at him sheepishly.

“Figured you needed more than my old oversized clothing, and you did tell me where you keep the spare key.”

Douglas finds himself smiling a little in return. It's genuine, and it feels strange on his face, but it's nice to know he still can. Progress, he supposes, or at least a sign that things have a chance at getting better.

_Day 3_

It is nearing 3 in the morning and Martin cannot sleep. Douglas is calm, asleep beside him, something Martin is grateful for, but his thoughts are far too heavy for him to rest now, and they spin in his mind, chaotic and loud. Martin sees the path before him, and closes his eyes. There is so very much riding on his ability to go about this the right way. Laying in bed, with his best friend cocooned against his side, he feels all his old insecurities welling up like the ocean at high tide. Whispers of doubt and uncertainty echo around and around in his mind, and he consciously works to push them away. _It doesn't matter_ , he thinks, _it doesn't matter what I feel_. Worry, doubt, panic; these are weights that have hung from his shoulders for years, and he's ignored them just fine before. He can do this. He has to do this. He will do this. Still, it is a long time before he drifts to sleep with this new conviction doing all it can to keep his nerves at bay.

=

Morning once again, and Douglas finds himself alone in the living room. Martin is in the shower, the sound of running water a quiet background noise, and he takes this moment of solitude to really think. He's old enough and wise enough to know that he needs to somehow come to terms with what has happened to him, but he's also stubborn and proud, far too used to playing a certain role to simply let his last defenses down. He can barely stand to think too hard on that night, can't even bring himself to think the _word_. He can tell himself all he wants what he he needs to do, but how to actually do it is beyond him. How can he move on from this? 

He was always the rock, the central support, the sturdy and reliable pillar that fixed all the impossible problems. He was the one they all turned to, to do something clever so everything turned out fine. He remembered several occasions where Martin would turn to him, panic in his eyes, and he could watch in satisfaction as a well-placed word here or a small move there solved everything and the tension left Martin's shoulders. Those incidents are clear in his mind, but they seem so very far away. The days of playing that part seep like mist from his grasp, escaping and evading his attempts to drag that piece of himself back into place. Douglas wonders if he'll ever be able to support the weight of a company when he can barely stand on his own two feet.

=

Martin closes his eyes, standing at the kitchen sink, and takes a breath to steady himself. The task ahead of him is daunting, and he is essentially flying blind, and he hardly thinks he is qualified or capable, but the necessity of the situation is pushing him forwards. There is a man in the room behind him, who _needs_ him. No one had ever really needed Martin before, not for much of anything, let alone on this level and it is terrifying. He is standing at the foot of a mountain, he is staring into the twisting winds of a cyclone, he is facing the wall of a tsunami. He is staring into something that could crush everything he cared about and it all depended on his ability to navigate the way forward. All his negative thoughts, those voices that whispered of failure and the little niggling doubts were part of that impending destruction, and Martin knew he could not be his own worst enemy. Those things would come back, he knew, periodically causing problems, but for now, they were compartmentalized, filed away and locked behind a door, kept as far as possible from Douglas as he could get them.

Martin swallowed and gathered every bit of the determination and stubbornness that had gotten him through six failed CPLs, glancing over his shoulder at the couch. A flash of silver hair, and he found himself silently swearing to do right by his closest friend. The core of steel sitting within him reverberated with his promise and he let his feet carry him out to the living room.

\--

Douglas sighed quietly, a cup of tea cradled in his hands. He stared blankly at the wall, listening to Martin doing dishes. He considered the path before him, and thought about how long and painful and difficult it was going to be, knowing himself as well as he did. This had been a complete upheaval of what had been a steady routine in his life for the past several years. He had been content at MJN, once Martin had settled in more, and he had been happy, even, as the years progressed and the little airdot had knit itself tighter, right into a family. He depended on the reliability of the established norm and having that disrupted was a stunning blow. He had never thought anything bad could happen to him, at least not like this, and with only a few days between him and the assault, he can barely find his footing. Faced with the journey he needs to take to rebuild, he almost wants to cry. He resists the urge, clinging to this last measure of control he has. Douglas can't go back to where he was, but he can certainly get himself to where he knows he'd like to be. When Martin sits himself down beside him, he shifts closer, basking in the warmth of the man he trusts to be the light to guide his way.

 

_Day 4_

In the night, Douglas had awoken twice, nightmares and shadows still snapping at his heels. The first time had been sudden, sharp, and he had jolted awake in a cold sweat, the images still burning in his mind's eye. Martin had woken up again and calmed him.  
The second time was quieter, more a sudden snap back to awareness, with no cold knot of terror sitting tight in his gut. He couldn't remember what he had dreamed about, and Martin stayed asleep.   
Douglas stares at the ceiling and just breathes, acknowledging to himself that there will be both good and bad nights, and perhaps it will be more bad than good. It's only been four days, after all.

=

Four days after Douglas came stumbling into Martin's flat, and Martin has finally worked up the nerve to delve deeper. He broaches the topic that morning after coffee has been consumed, hesitantly bringing up the first night. Douglas immediately seems to go on alert, tension creeping into his expression, and Martin nearly backs down, not wanting to be the reason for Douglas' distress. But he knows they need to talk eventually, that some hard conversations have to be had, and if he doesn't start following through now, he doesn't know how he'll be able to help Douglas in the way he deserves. Besides, he's not asking for all the details, or even more than the vague and jumbled explanation he had. Martin just wants to address the biggest gap in the account he's received. 

“Who was he?”

Douglas' jaw clenches, a muscle jumping, and he looks like he might be clamming up. A heavy pause, and his shoulders droop, one hand coming to massage his temples.

“He was...a colleague. From Air England. I don't-” Douglas swallows thickly. “I don't really remember him. I know he was ground crew, but otherwise...”

Douglas trails off, a lost expression crossing his face, and Martin has to carefully arrange his features to not show the rush of fury that sweeps through him. He was hoping Douglas might know why, might know a motive, some kind of skewed reasoning that would in any way explain the actions that man took, but to hear that Douglas doesn't even _know_ sends a burning mix of anger and nausea down to his gut. He clamps down on his roiling emotions, and forces his voice calm again.

“Do you know his name?”

“Well, I do now. He made sure I wouldn't forget it.”

The last part was muttered under his breath, a bitter statement whispered to the surface of the table, yet Martin hears it anyway. Douglas murmurs out the name and he burns it into his mind, brands it there with hatred and righteous fury, a note to himself, just in case.

Sensing this was enough discussing for the day, Martin reaches out and lays a comforting hand on Douglas' arm, before standing from his chair.

The little bit of tension still lingering in the room is cut immediately when he bangs his knee on the underside of the table, eliciting a loud yelp, even as he jerks backwards and trips over his chair, just barely catching himself from tumbling to the floor. There is a beat, before a low rumble of laughter bounces around the kitchen. Douglas is looking at him, eyes crinkled in mirth, and he's laughing, quietly but properly, the familiar deep chuckle filling Martin with a warmth that completely makes up for his now throbbing knee. He grins and huffs at Douglas to shut up, prompting another laugh, and Martin silently counts that as a victory.

 

_Day 5_

Douglas had broken, in some way or another, shattered and broken, pieces dropping and scattering. Finding those pieces and trying to fit them back together is difficult. He has only retrieved a handful, and it feels like none of them fit together. He's trying to regain parts of himself, of his old self-assurance, but helplessness leaves it mark on that kind of thing, and its a struggle to salvage much of anything. Douglas considers if it wouldn't be easier to simply start over in constructing himself, rather than scavenge at the ruins of a temple for an old, outdated, battered sky god.

=

Emily calls.  
She calls in the early afternoon, because the rest of the world doesn't wait for one man's pain, and Douglas nearly panics when he sees her name on his phone. He would never reject her call, it goes against everything he stands for, so he answers, and tries his best to act as normal as possible. The forced casualness, the fake cheer, it's all a massive effort that is quickly sucking him dry and he barely manages to get through the phone call. As soon as she hangs up, the last goodbye still hanging between them, he lets the phone drop right out of his hand, onto the sofa he has fallen onto. Douglas is spent by the effort, truly worn-out, and he finds himself frustrated.  
Trying to bring himself back to where he was, building his old self up again, is just such an enormous effort, and it's almost suffocating in it's immensity. He can barely even pretend for his daughter's sake, and for a man who has made his way through life with lies and pretense and clever little tricks, it's painful to see how arduous recovery really is.  
It's frustrating, it's upsetting, it's intimidating, and it's making him a little angry.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, Douglas finds a well of anger he had no idea was there. Because it just wasn't _fair_. He couldn't remember anything he had done to deserve this, and why did that man hate him so much, and why did this happen to him, and why, when he had finally found himself _happy_ again, did something like this have to happen? Everything else in his life went to shit and he lost everything or ruined it or something went wrong. His career went to pieces, he watched three marriages crumble into dust, he barely spoke to his oldest daughter, he had lost himself for so long at the bottom of a bottle, and- _why, why, whywhywhy_

Douglas belatedly realizes he has been shouting most of these thoughts aloud and at Martin, raging and roaring, and pacing heavily across the room. The other man is watching him calmly, eyes tracking his agitated movement and simply weathering his explosion. 

Martin watches it all, tracking Douglas' path back and forth over the carpet. He'll sit here and endure this storm, as long as it takes, knowing the danger of holding everything inside. Douglas needs the release, far too used to keeping himself closed-off, and he needs to vent and shout and storm around the room, so it doesn't get bottled up. Martin doesn't bat an eyelash when Douglas turns directly to him to continue his tirade. The anger is half self-directed and half at his attacker, and Martin sees no reason to do anything but listen and sit where he is in silent support. When Douglas trails off, anger spent, and comes back to himself, he looks exhausted, like this outpouring has ripped all his emotions out and dumped them onto the floor. He comes to a halt, staring at the floor numbly, and Martin slowly stands and approaches. He faces Douglas, and reaches out to grasp his hands. When Douglas' eyes dart to meet his, Martin squeezes gently, giving his most sincerely compassionate look.

“I'm sorry. I know. I'm here.”

 

_Day 6_

Martin finds himself with a new feeling fluttering in his chest, as he watches Douglas flip through the newspaper from the corner of his eye. He's not quite sure what it is, but he knows exactly what caused it.

Faith. Douglas has had faith in him, whether he knows it or not, that he, Martin Crieff, would be able to help in some way. Martin had seen Douglas that first night, had seen that he wasn't really thinking properly, still too traumatized and dazed to do more than act on instinct. Instinct had brought him to his co-pilot's doorstep, and Martin finds himself moved. Douglas has always been someone Martin admired, and to see him as he has in the last week has only added to that. Douglas is so strong to endure and keep going and seek help, and Martin isn't sure he would be able to do the same. He knows that his friend's faith in him is one of the most precious things he can have, and he treasures it, even if he doesn't fully comprehend it himself, and the result of this being a self-assurance that Martin had never really been able to grasp before. Douglas' solid trust has now brought a steady confidence and a sturdiness in the face of it, and Martin finds himself straightening, more ready than before to stand beside Douglas in the coming days.

\--

Douglas eyes Martin from behind the pages of the newspaper, taking his time and observing the other man, and considering this new feeling that fills him. Martin has been remarkable these past few days and Douglas is left in wonder at his strength. He remembers a bird strike and an engine on fire and the calm he had exuded, the control and levelheadedness in the face of emergency, and asks himself if maybe that had attributed to his subconscious decision to come here.  
It was definitely the right thing to do, that's obvious now, and Douglas marvels at the way Martin has stepped up to be exactly what Douglas needed. He really thinks about it, why he went to Martin, and wonders when the other man came to mean safety. Maybe when he proved himself full of loyalty and a surprising ferocity as his time with MJN progressed, but it was more than that that brought him here, Douglas is sure, though he can't quite put his finger on it. Before all this, he might have been bothered at not having the answer, at the elusiveness of reasoning, but now he can only be grateful for where he has ended up.

Still, as impressed as Douglas is by Martin, the captain is very much himself, regardless of his ability to shine in a crisis, and Douglas smiles to himself as the smaller man tries to explain the plot of some movie they're discussing. Martin trips over his wording and stutters out the rest of his sentence, hands flailing slightly and Douglas is glad. Glad for the quiet sort of strength Martin is full of when the dark of night becomes an enclosing cage, and glad that the other man is still his usual old self in the reassuring light of day.

=

Martin watches as Douglas runs a hand through his hair, absently following the news on the television. He has a fleeting thought that the other man is beautiful, and his mind halts. Yes, he thinks, Douglas is beautiful, in his own way, and Martin admires many things about him, and the affection has been dominating the exasperation for years now. He smiles internally, and makes peace with these thoughts, because regardless of what it is he feels for the other man, the time for that is some time far away. For now, he's satisfied with what they have.

\--

Martin is beautiful in the early morning light, vibrant ginger hair made brighter in the sun pouring in from the window. Douglas stares at the way it spills across the bed they're sharing and how it settles in the curls on Martin's forehead. He resists the urge to reach out and touch. Douglas knows how he feels, knows what he wants as a result, but also knows that now is not the time. He doesn't think either of them are ready for that yet. For now, he is content in this gentle and close thing they have going, and the peace that settles naturally around them.

 

_Day 7_

The weather is beautiful, the skies a clear blue, the sun shining and birds singing, and Douglas stares out the window for a moment. He glances at Martin, who's staring out the kitchen window with a wistful look on his face, and makes a decision.

They go out for a walk together. Douglas is tense, though he tries not to let it show, even knowing at this stage that he doesn't need to pretend for Martin. Martin, for his part, understands that this is a major step forward. Douglas had been dragged off to hell on a walk not more than the week before, and his hunched body language gives away his anxiety. Martin, casually as he can, reaches out and grabs Douglas' hand, lacing their fingers together. He doesn't look at the other man, and fights at the flush spreading across his face from such a bold action. He had done it to lend support, to give Douglas a solid grounding to the present, and as a reminder that he was here. Anyone who saw them would likely get the wrong idea, but Martin didn't care, and it felt right nonetheless, only proved further when Douglas tightened his grip as he straightened. The walk was relaxing and they took the time to stroll through a small garden, before heading back to Martin's flat. They don't let go of each other once.

=

One week passes, and they are slowly setting foundations and gaining solid ground, together. Douglas is relieved to be making progress, and Martin is just happy to see the lines on Douglas' face smooth out again. They both sleep a little better at night now. Martin has found himself at a loss more than once, and Douglas has lost his temper or gone blank or had a flashback several times, and they make mistakes, because they're terribly differing people, all contrasting personality traits and opposing views, and conflict is inevitable. Despite that, they've settled here and some part of Douglas never wants to leave this little cozy flat with it's welcoming nervous owner.

Martin wasn't perfect, by any means, but he was perfect for Douglas, and that's what mattered.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a ridiculously long time since I updated this fic, and I apologize. Life got in the way and my muse took a very long vacation. But now that this part has been completed, I think I'll be able to finish it fairly soon.

Douglas stares down at his wrists.  
The marks have healed, faded, leaving only faint blemishes as a reminder of what was once there.  
He stares at the last receding physical evidence of that night and thinks about the days he has spent, enclosed in this flat, hiding from the world and rebuilding his walls. He seems to have hit a stopping point in his recovery, where everything feels stagnant, like he can't move forward any further, though he knows he has to. Perhaps, Douglas thinks, perhaps it's time to venture back out, and return to his life and the way things were before.  
He stares down at his wrists, and decides its time to move back to his own house. 

Martin says nothing when he finds Douglas deep in thought, only settling down beside him, a silent pillar of support. Douglas feels a pang at the thought of leaving, of separation, of sleeping alone again, but he knows the only way to move forward is to move on. Martin doesn't comment when Douglas tells him his plans.

=

The drive there is one of comfortable silence, warm and undemanding, thick with the kind of mutual ease built from years of sharing an enclosed space. Douglas leans his head on the window and stares at the passing scenery, forehead pressed against the glass, until a particularly rough bump has him hastily sitting up. There's a soft snort from the driver's seat, and Douglas shoots an annoyed look at Martin, even though the other man isn't facing him to see it. Martin, likely through experience, seems to be able to feel the glare on the side of his face, and his lips quirk up in amusement.

“That only works in the movies, you know.”

“...shut up.”

Martin laughs softly, glancing briefly at Douglas, and Douglas has to stop himself from reacting. The sun, at that moment, had chosen to peer through the cloud cover, shining in through the windshield and pouring light over the other man like liquid. His ginger hair is vibrant, looking more like threads of spun gold, and Douglas finds himself with the sudden urge to run his hands through it. He quells the feeling by averting his gaze, focusing on the task at hand. As they pulled up the street leading to his house, he reflected that the residence had never seemed so daunting before. 

=

Douglas jolts in surprise, and Martin makes a small sound as well, as they pull into Douglas' drive and find a second car already there. For a brief moment, there is a spark of panic in Douglas' chest, but he quashes it, recognizing the car as Carolyn's. Dredging up all the strength and confidence he could find, he opens the door and steps out. 

It takes approximately 45 seconds for Arthur to come tearing out the front door (and how did he even get inside, does everyone know where he keeps the key now?) rapidly shooting out question after question about where he and Martin have been. Douglas barely manages to hide his flinch as Arthur bounces a little too close, and he's thankful when Martin appears at his side, diverting the steward's attention.

“Skip! Douglas! You've been away for so long, what's happening? Is everything okay? Mum said it was an emergency!”

Douglas blinks as his brain tries to process the sudden influx of questions, still a bit sluggish from his time spent hiding away at Martin's. Luckily, Martin was already making placating motions to Arthur, apparently capable of both processing and answering his string of questions.

“I know Arthur, we had things that needed to be taken care of, yes both of us, sorry we were away, Everything is, uh, mostly sorted? Yes, it was an emergency, but its not quite so critical anymore.”

Douglas envied Martin's current level of brain processing power, as it had taken him until halfway through Martin's response to register everything Arthur had asked. Too long laying low, he thought, too long letting himself slip away from the mantle of the clever sky god. Too long spent where he didn't have to be the smartest in the room. His head hurt.

Carolyn chose that moment to come striding down the walkway, looking for all the world like she couldn't care less. But years of knowing each other had gifted Douglas with remarkable insight regarding one Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, and he could read the tension and worry in the set of her shoulders, the line of her mouth. He winced internally, hoping she wouldn't see past his still damaged walls, or if she did, as she was likely to do, she wouldn't say anything. Discretion had always been part of their relationship. There is a momentary bustle of activity as they move as one into the house, gently herded by Martin, and before Douglas realizes it, he's sitting on his couch. 

Douglas abruptly remembers his manners, and casually asks if anyone wants tea. There's a round of nods, but as he moves to stand, Martin beats him to it. Douglas opens his mouth to protest, it's his house after all, but Martin shoots him a look, and he subsides. 

Douglas watches Martin vanish around the corner and feels a brief wisp of affection at how Martin has been around enough to know the layout of his kitchen. He turns his head back to the living room, as Arthur starts babbling on about a flight they had had earlier that week, and lets himself relax into the familiar territory of an Arthur telling a story.

Carolyn watches all this with sharp eyes, intuition honed from both being a mother and how long she's known Douglas. She can't quite put her finger on it, but there's something...off. With a flippant remark about making sure her tea is done right, she sweeps after Martin.

-

“What exactly happened to my first officer?” 

Martin barely stops himself from jumping and spilling the kettle full of water. Carolyn's voice is harsher than she means, but MJN has always been more of a family than a company, and Carolyn is their matriarch. There's something going on and whatever it is, it isn't good. Douglas is too tense, too weary, too cautious. 

Martin tenses as he turns to look at her, perfectly aware that she knows something is wrong, and that she won't let it go until she's satisfied. He steels himself, draws himself up to his fullest height, and looks her straight in the eye.

“I can't tell you.”

There. No hesitation, no doubt, a firm statement of fact. Carolyn meets his gaze coolly. 

“Can't or won't?”

Martin clenches his hands into fists.

“Both.”

Carolyn goes to say something, perhaps to try and threaten or intimidate or order him around like usual, but in a sudden burst of firmness, he cuts her off.

“No.” he states, strong and unyielding. “It's Douglas' business and I won't betray his trust.”

Carolyn stares at him for a long moment, assessing. Martin forces himself not to react, to remain poised and sturdy. Carolyn apparently finds what she's looking for, as she gives him a sharp nod, squeezes his arm, and grabs two of the mugs of tea, before disappearing back to the living room.

Martin watches her go, wondering what had just happened, and why he felt like he had just passed a very important test.

=

After Carolyn's departure, Douglas and Arthur were left alone in the room. Douglas continued to stare at the doorway to the kitchen, hearing the kettle boiling, but otherwise not much. He figured he was justified in being concerned, considering he knew what Carolyn was like and leaving her alone with Martin seemed perhaps a touch foolish.

Before he could convince himself to go after them, Arthur had moved himself to the couch to sit beside Douglas. There is a brief pause, and Douglas realizes Arthur is hesitating. The action is so out of character, he finds himself automatically paying more attention to the steward. Arthur bites his lips, eyes cast downwards, and Douglas waits.

“Douglas...” Arthur begins, quiet and nervous.

“Something happened, right? Something...bad?”

Douglas immediately stiffens, and Arthur sees this, hastily raises his hands.

“You don't have to tell me! Just, you seem, um, not brilliant...”

Douglas let himself slump back down, sighing deeply. Arthur is the last person he'd want to be talking to regarding this situation, but Arthur has always been remarkably perceptive when it comes to people. 

“Not brilliant just about sums it up, yes.”

“Oh. Well, Skip has been helping you, right?”

“He has indeed.”

“Well that's...that's good, cause I know the best way to get through something bad is to have help.”

“Is that right?” 

“Yeah! So, if you have Skip helping you, then that's good, cause Skip is brilliant, and you're you, so if the two of you are working together you can definitely do something clever and everything will be fine.”

“Perhaps...”

Douglas found himself somewhere between amused and impressed at Arthur's insight and his never wavering faith in those he loved. He felt a surge of affection for the young man before him, even as a small thread of guilt wound through for worrying Arthur as he had. Arthur shifted on the couch, head down, even as he peered up at Douglas through his eyelashes, looking much like a puppy.

“It's just...Herc is brilliant, really, but I miss you and Skip and...”

Arthur trailed off, and Douglas found himself staring at him, thrown by the sudden expression of upset on his face.

“Arthur...”

“...I don't like it when you're both upset.”

Arthur's hands fidgeted, and Douglas inhaled heavily, strongly reminded of his daughter in the days preceding his divorce with her mother. He tried to come up with an appropriate response, some strong reassurance, but found he was only able to give a small measure of comfort.

“Arthur, I don't know how long it'll take, but eventually everything will be fine, and we'll go back to flying and playing word games and annoying your mother, alright?”

Arthur looked at him with such a heartfelt expression, Douglas couldn't help but reach a hand out to grip Arthur's shoulder.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Arthur's face promptly cleared, and he grinned, once more cheerful, and Douglas relaxed. The familiar wash of cheery warmth that often surrounded Arthur was enough to bring him a small dose of peace for the moment. Arthur was halfway through describing one of their latest passengers when Carolyn came sweeping back into the room, bearing two mugs.

Martin followed after a moment, looking a bit bemused, with two more mugs in hand, though his expression cleared as he settled himself beside Douglas, handing him one of the mugs. Douglas took a sip. Tea with everything in it, just like he liked it. He smiled into the rim of the mug as Carolyn joined Arthur in describing the client, and Martin laughed at some disparaging comment made regarding the flight. 

_This._ Douglas thinks. _This is nice._

=

Hours later and the sky has darkened and Carolyn and Arthur are moving to leave. Tea has been drunk, takeout food has been consumed, and the four of them are feeling like a whole unit once more. Douglas lets himself be content for now, even with the immediate departure of Carolyn and Arthur, and Martin's soon to follow. 

There's a flurry of activity, coats are put on, phones are checked, keys are grabbed, and Carolyn and Arthur are out the door with a last farewell, Arthur still happily talking. The door closes, and Douglas slips off to clean up, and to give himself an excuse not to focus on the gap left by the Shappeys' leaving.

Martin hovers at the door for a moment, and as such, catches the thread of conversation as Carolyn and Arthur walk away. 

“...Douglas isn't ok, is he Mum?”

“No, dear heart, I'm afraid not.”

“But he will be, right?”

“Well...”

“No, but...he has Skip to help him. So he will be. He has to be. Because Skip really loves him.”

“ How do you know Martin loves him?”

“Well he's showing all the signs of someone being in love, I learned that in-”

“Ipswich, of course. Come along then, Snoopadoop is waiting.”

Their voices faded away as they walked down the drive, and got in their car, and Martin shook his head fondly. Trust Arthur to be able to see it. Martin perked up as he heard snatches of humming from the kitchen. He smiled. It was nice to hear Douglas singing again, even if it was just absent minded. Douglas would be alright, Martin would make sure. Arthur had faith in him, and some part of Douglas did too, and that was enough. 

=

It's time for Martin to leave. He's delayed long enough, and the day keeps getting later. He's at the door, ready to go, and he's almost convinced himself to turn the handle. As it is, he feels Douglas' eyes on him, and can't quite bring himself to move. They had already had a slightly awkward exchange, as Martin made his excuses to leave and Douglas pretended to be as flippant about it as usual. Martin knew, as they both did, that it was time to move forward. 

Martin stares hard at his hand on the doorknob, and turns to face Douglas one last time.

“Will you be alright?”

“I'm sure I wi-” Douglas cuts himself off, looks down. He swallows hard, struggling, but he didn't want to lie to Martin, not now, not after everything.

“...I don't know.” It takes colossal effort to admit it, and he feels drained all over again.

Martin's eyes soften, a dark grayish hue in the fading light of the day, and Douglas forces himself to not look away from the intensity of that gaze. When Martin steps close after a beat, he instinctively leans in, borrowing from Martin's strength, basking in his warmth, and bolstering himself in the other man's presence. Martin is still reluctant to leave, hesitating at the door, half turned back to Douglas. But Douglas says nothing, makes no move to keep him here, even if some part of him is desperate to reach out and latch on and never let go. Martin seems to steel himself, to straighten, and he reaches a hand out. He nearly brings it to Douglas' face, but aborts the motion, and instead grips his shoulder. He squeezes, once, and Douglas brings a hand up to cover Martin's own. Martin smiles, softly, encouraging, slips his hand out and finally walks out the door. Douglas feels the lingering touch beneath his hand and watches the car pull away and disappear down the street. His house is suddenly much colder.

=

That night, lying in bed, alone for the first time in a week, Douglas can't sleep. He's restless in a way he can't ascertain, tossing and turning and unable to relax. The darkness of the room is making him anxious, and the large open space feels oddly suffocating. Douglas groans aloud and smashes his face into his pillow. He's so damn tired, and he'd really like nothing more than to sleep, but still it evades him.

-

Not too far away, Martin rolls over once more, still wide awake, before decisively tossing the covers off and getting out of bed. 

-

Douglas drags his hands over his face, lying on his back and trying to fall asleep through sheer force of will.

-

Martin digs through his closet, pulls out a box, and grabs the wrapped contents. He dresses, grabs his keys, hops in his car, and drives.

He stops at an isolated field, far away from most people, and grabs his bundle, moving to face the basic wooden replica of a shooting range. He unwraps the cloth in his hands, and stares down at his grandfather's gun, gleaming in the moonlight. Jaw set, his fingers settle in a familiar grip, safety off, and he raises the gun to aim.

-

Douglas finally drifts off, but his sleep is far from restful. His dreams are plagued by voices, shadows haunting the corners of his mind, and his adrenaline spikes in response.

-

Martin fires angrily, eyes narrowed, but his aim is true and the targets are shot with a practiced precision. He thinks about Douglas, his friend, about the lines of stress in his face. He thinks about the fact that he's left him alone. He thinks about the man who hurt him. The target he's firing at topples from a rapid round of bullets. Martin grits his teeth and tries to calm down.

-

Douglas comes back awake with panic in his chest like a tight band, and gasping for breath. He shoots out of bed like a man possessed and stumbles his way to the kitchen, still half caught in the nightmare. He's halfway to the liquor cabinet before he remembers himself, and abruptly snaps back to the present. The nightmare, whatever it was, still lingers, the taste of dread on his tongue, and his heart pounds away beneath his ribs.

-

With a vicious snarl, Martin empties the last of his bullets, rage just about spent, though the righteous anger still simmers beneath the surface. 

\- 

Douglas tries to catch his breath, standing in the middle of his kitchen in the dark, but calm is far away, and he drags himself to the table and falls into a chair. Without thinking, he reaches out to flick the light on, blinking rapidly at the sudden brightness. When his vision clears, he's staring at the counter, and the mugs sitting there innocently. He had left them out to dry from earlier, and the sudden memory goes a long way towards calming him. With his panic more or less subsided, he forces his mind away from the darker corners, and thinks about red hair and blue-green eyes. 

-

Martin stares out across the field, leaning against the hood of his car, letting smoke from a cigarette curl in the air. He breathes out, pushing away the thought of the bastard who assaulted his first officer. He inhales and thinks of Douglas, carding his fingers through his hair, smirking, laughing. He pushes off his car, grinds the cigarette under his foot, and drives away, the gun tucked safely back in it's case. 

-

Just the thought of Martin makes his thoughts slow their racing, and the anxiety begins to fade. Douglas sits at the table, staring into space and considers his options.

-

Martin sits at his kitchen table, a cup of Douglas' favorite tea warming his hands. He stares out the window and tries not to worry.

-

Douglas sits up, decision made, and returns to his bedroom.

-

Half an hour later, Martin startles from his deep thoughts as a knock comes from his front door.


End file.
